House in Charlton Crescent (25 page)

“Where did you find those things?” Margaret questioned him.

“Ah I thought that might interest you,” the inspector answered as he put his hand into the box again and drew out this time a strange, staring-looking object—a rough mask, such as are worn on Guy Fawkes day. From it there dangled long wisps of dirty white muslin.

“Another property,” he observed dryly. “You do not seem interested, Miss Balmaine. And yet you would like to know where the wig and the bonnet were found. Well, I have been searching in strange places. The first two properties”—repeating the last word with sarcastic emphasis—“were found—” He stopped, and this time his gaze was fixed wholly upon Margaret Balmaine.

The tenseness of her attitude did not alter, but Cardyn caught a momentary flicker of her eyelids.

“Where were they found?” she questioned.

“In an apartment house in Ilford Road, Fulham,” the inspector finished. “In a room occupied for the time being by Lady Anne's late secretary, Mr. David Branksome.”

There was no mistaking the effect his words produced. A sort of quiver of relief passed over Dorothy's face. Some of the tension and the strain died out, a faint tinge of colour came back; to the pale cheeks.

Margaret Balmaine started, for one second she set her small white teeth hard in her lip. Then she passed her handkerchief over it quickly.

“I don't believe it!” she flashed out.

The inspector shrugged his shoulders.

“I am afraid that belief or unbelief cannot affect hard facts.”

Miss Balmaine flashed an angry glance at him. She had begun a defiant rejoinder when there was an interruption. There was a loud, insistent knock at the door.

Cardyn was about to open it, but the inspector was before him. A waiter with a familiar-looking yellow envelope on his salver stood in the passage.

“Telegram, sir, just come!”

The inspector took it and with a word of thanks shut the door. Then he tore the envelope open, while the other three stared at him breathlessly. An expression of relief was on his face as he glanced up.

“This is from North Hackney,” he said quietly. “David Branksome was arrested there at four o'clock this afternoon.”

“Arrested! It is not true!” Margaret Balmaine's voice rang across the stillness that followed the inspector's words like a trumpet.

“Quite true!” said the inspector blandly. “Why do you say it is not?”

“Because he is not guilty. I know he is not,” the girl said hotly.

“And how can you know that?” the inspector went on.

“Because he was miles away! I know he was!” Miss Balmaine reiterated.

“Miles away from—where—when?” the inspector questioned incisively.

Looking at him, his subordinates would have said that he was getting dangerous now.

“From that house in Charlton Crescent where Lady Anne Daventry was killed.”

“Ah!” said the inspector quietly. “But I did not say anything about the house in Charlton Crescent or Lady Anne Daventry's death, I think. David Branksome has been arrested for stealing Lady Anne's pearls, not for being concerned in her death.”

“He did not!” Margaret Balmaine's voice was as clear as ever.

“How do you know he did not?” The inspector's tone was as determined as hers.

Dorothy and Cardyn looked on much as the seconds in a duel might.

“I know he is innocent—that he did not steal the pearls. Because”—the girl paused and gulped something down in her throat—“I stole them myself!”

“You stole them, Miss Balmaine?” The tone was expressive of nothing but well simulated surprise.

“Yes. I did steal them,” Margaret Balmaine reiterated. She stood as she had stood throughout the interview, her head held up defiantly, her clenched hand hanging by her side, the other steadying her against the table behind. “I stole the pearls, I wore your properties”—pointing contemptuously to the wig and bonnet—“I impersonated Lady Anne and got the money from Spagnum's. Now, what are you going to do, Inspector Furnival?”

“Why did you do it?” the inspector questioned, his quiet tone in strong contrast with the fire of hers.

She threw out her hands.

“Can't you see, man? I wanted the money. I have always wanted money, more than I ever had all my life. Here was a chance to get it, to help myself, and I took it. Now, I ask you again, what are you going to do with me? Arrest me, do what you like, only let David Branksome go free.”

“I see.” The inspector looked at her consideringly. “But this does not account for the bonnet and wig being found in Mr. David Branksome's lodgings or for the footsteps in the flower border. How do you explain these things, Miss Balmaine?”

“Oh, I don't know,” she said, her white fingers clutching one another in an agony. “I do not believe in your footmarks at all. I
know
David Branksome was far away from Charlton Crescent when Lady Anne was murdered. As for the wig and bonnet, he found out what I had done and took them away so that no one would suspect me. Why he kept them I don't know. Now—now you must let him out.”

The inspector shook his head.

“I have no power to do that. And—I do not know—I doubt whether any jury would believe your story. They would say, I am afraid, that you had invented it to save your lover—”

“How dare you!” the girl interrupted passionately. “It—it had nothing to do with David. I did it on my own. The pearls were of no use to Lady Anne. She never wore them. Very often she told us that she would never wear any jewellery again. She seldom even looked at them. They were shut up in that secret hiding-place in the escritoire—no use to anyone. While to me they meant just—salvation. I took them. I got myself up to look like Lady Anne—I had always been good at theatricals—and was most successful in deceiving Spagnum's.”

“How did you manage to get to the escritoire? And without leaving any marks?” the inspector questioned.

“Oh, well!” she hesitated and bit her lip. “After all, most things are possible with skeleton keys.”

“A skeleton key would not open or show the secret of the springs,” the inspector said dryly. “You will have to think of something else, Miss Balmaine.”

“I will not!” she flashed hotly. “I did take them—that is enough for you. I will tell you nothing more. I did take the pearls. How I got them is my own business.”

“Yours and Mr. Branksome's,” the inspector suggested.

With a glance of supreme contempt Margaret Balmaine turned her back upon him and addressed herself to the other two.

“You do see, don't you, that I did take the pearls? I must say so now that David is arrested. It—it was a sudden temptation. I wanted to have some money while I was young enough to enjoy things. Lady Anne was old. But I wish now that I had not taken her pearls. I would never have touched her to hurt her. Nor would David. You do believe me, do you not?”

“
Qui s'excuse, s'accuse
,”
 
the inspector murmured softly.

Dorothy cast a reproachful glance at him as she laid her arm caressingly round the other girl's back.

“Certainly I believe you, Margaret. I am sure you would not have hurt Lady Anne and I know what temptation is. I—I might have yielded to this myself, if my need had been as great as yours.”

“One question,” interposed the inspector. “The price of the pearls was paid to you by Spagnum's under the belief that you were Lady Anne Daventry. So much we have discovered, so much you have acknowledged. Now, will you tell us how it was that Miss Fyvert paid the dressmaker's bill with one of the notes you received?” For the first time Margaret Balmaine's eyes fell before his, and a dull flush of shame made itself visible through her powder. She turned from the detective to Dorothy's pitying eyes.

“I changed it, Dorothy. But I did not mean to do you any harm. I did not think the loss of the pearls would be discovered for ages, perhaps not in Lady Anne's lifetime. And then it would have been thought that she had disposed of them herself. If it had not been for those tiresome girls asking to see them that afternoon that is how it would have been, and there would have been no bother at all.”

“Poor Aunt Anne!” said Dorothy softly. “I wish she had not found out. It troubled her last moments. But she knows all about it now, Margaret. And—I think we may be sure—she understands.”

“Oh, I don't know—we don't know anything.” With a quick sob Margaret Balmaine tore herself from the other's embrace.

With his heart in his eyes Bruce Cardyn watched the girl he loved, the pity in her eyes deepening, only the trembling of her lips, her varying colour showing how deeply she was moved. Once he turned towards her impetuously as though to protect her, stand by her. But in a second he checked the impulse and waited.

The inspector was glancing from one to the other sharply. Not one change in their expression escaped him. But his eyes rested last and longest on Margaret Balmaine.

“If there were to be any bother, though,” he went on suavely, “you preferred Miss Fyvert to face it sooner than do so yourself. That we all understand, Miss Balmaine. Now it is my painful duty to arrest you for the theft of Lady Anne Daventry's pearls. A taxi is waiting with a couple of officers. But if you will walk quietly downstairs and through the hall with me no one will know anything about it and there need be no unpleasantness.”

“Arrested!” Margaret Balmaine swayed.

Dorothy sprang to her side again.

“This is not right, inspector,” she cried passionately. “You are exceeding your orders. You—believe the pearls are mine now, and will not have anyone prosecuted for taking them. You cannot, you dare not take Miss Balmaine away. I will send for her cousin, Mr. John Daventry—you will see that he—”

“Mr. John Daventry is on his way here,” said the inspector, glancing at his watch. “I phoned him as soon as I saw the way things were going, and got an answer. He is coming up in his car. As for the pearls, we received instructions from Lady Anne Daventry herself—those instructions were confirmed by her only acting executor, the Rev. and Hon. Augustus Fyvert. I am afraid that even your subsequent inheritance gives you no power to alter them, Miss Fyvert.”

“You are taking an unfair advantage,” Dorothy said hotly. “We ought to have had some one here to take our part—to—”

“Miss Fyvert,” the inspector said gravely, “you must not blame me for what I am doing. I have no choice in the matter, and very soon you will understand that.”

“I shall not,” Dorothy said stoutly. “I shall always blame you—I will never forgive you if you arrest Margaret. If she goes with you will come too. I shall tell the magistrate—”

“No,” said the inspector firmly. “No one must come with me but my prisoner.”

“No,” said Margaret Balmaine suddenly. “You cannot come with me, Dorothy. You must not link your young life with my miserable lot. Soon you will learn the worst there is to know about me, and, when you do, will you forgive and pity your poor unhappy Margaret?” She stooped and catching the other girl's hand pressed her lips to it lingeringly. Then she glanced at the inspector. “I am ready,” she said simply. “I will come—only be as quick as you can.”

Cardyn stepped to the door quickly.

“If I can help you, will you let me for the sake of one who was very dear to us both?” he said to her quietly.

She paused and the inspector waited behind, Dorothy watching them in puzzled amazement.

“You know?” she said simply. “I—I sometimes thought you did.”

“Naturally!” he assented. “Because Maisie—”

A sudden light broke over her face.

“Of course! I have been blind all this time. Now I see. You are Maisie's brother!”

He bent his head. “And for her sake, because she loved you and I know how hard life is for women, let me do anything I can for you.”

“Help David if you can,” she whispered. “Nobody can help me. Only—just believe me—living, I would never have robbed Maisie.”

“I am sure you would not,” he assented. He held her hand for a moment in his firm clasp, then, dropping it, stood back.

“Good-bye,” she whispered. Tell Dorothy—”

She went out, her small golden head held high. The inspector followed closely. Glancing round, Cardyn saw that two men stood further down the passage, that two others were waiting near. They were all in plain clothes, but Cardyn's quick eyes recognized them at once as Inspector Furnival's subordinates. He felt a passing touch of wonder that, the inspector's preparations had been so extensive and so thorough. The arrest of one girl like Margaret Balmaine scarcely seemed to call for such strong measures.

But just then he had not time to think of anyone but Dorothy. He went back to her. She was standing as he had left her, near the table opposite the door. He thought she looked terribly ill, worse even than she had in those dreadful days when Maureen was missing. But to his unutterable joy she turned to him now in her trouble. She stretched out her hands to him.

“Tell me how we can help her!”

“The first thing to do is to engage a lawyer for her defence,” Bruce answered slowly. “Then, if, as the inheritrix and actual owner of the pearls you plead for her at the trial, her sentence may be lightened. I am afraid it is useless to think of her getting off altogether.”

Dorothy interrupted him with a cry of protest.

“It must not—it cannot go to trial. It must be stopped. John's cousin—the old Squire's granddaughter. I think I must be going out of my mind. And—and I was forgetting. You are Balmaine Cardyn—she is your sister and you are letting her go to prison without saying a word to help her! Oh, it is monstrous! monstrous!”

“I should say monstrous too,” Cardyn agreed taking the girl's cold hand in his and noting the relief in her eyes as she heard his words. “But—”